


five times arya visits storms end & one time she stays

by mogitz



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 5 Times, Angst, F/M, Longing, Love, Pining, Romance, Slight Smut, all that jazz, but it's pretty tasteful, but where's the fun in that?, can't have romance without a healthy dose of angst, if they would just TALK to each other, like they could probably be together
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-12
Updated: 2019-05-12
Packaged: 2020-03-01 07:28:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18795745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mogitz/pseuds/mogitz
Summary: Arya would love to make Storm's End her home... but first, she has some unfinished business.





	five times arya visits storms end & one time she stays

**Author's Note:**

> idk, man. I got sucked in by this ship and I can't write romance without angst so ya get both.
> 
> enjoy?

 

 

>  

* * *

 

_“You only know what I want you to_

_I know everything you don't want me to_

_Oh your mouth is poison, your mouth is wine_

_You think your dreams are the same as mine_

_Oh I don't love you but I always will_

_Oh I don't love you but I always will_

_Oh I don't love you but I always will_

_I always will…”_

 

 _-Poison and Wine,_ **_The Civil Wars_ **

 

* * *

**_Visit One - After The War Was Won_ **

 

Lordship suits him.

 

Not in an obvious way, but it does just the same. After all, it was proclaimed that the best leaders are often the ones who never wanted the honor in the first place.

All Gendry wanted was a last name - he never asked for all of _this_. He certainly wouldn’t have accepted his namesake if he knew it meant losing her.

But it _did_ \- it _did_ mean losing her.

And without her, his new, fancy name meant nothing.

But he _was_ the Lord of Storm’s End. One couldn’t very well go back to sweating over a soot-filled forge in Flea Bottom after learning such a fact now, can they?

It wasn’t necessarily his first choice - he’d thought long and hard about renouncing the title and going after her.

And he _did_ ... at least, _at first_ he did.

Before Gendry even considered making his way to Storm’s End to claim his title,  he followed her to the Battle of King’s Landing. He’d fought right along with his allies and once again proved victorious, but he never seemed to cross paths with Arya on or off the battlefield - she always seemed to be just a few steps ahead of him. It was as if they’d always just missed each other - not unlike those many years they spent so close yet so far away from one another before their fateful reunion in Winterfell.

By the time the dust settled and the war was won, she was still nowhere to be found. He’d _heard_ though - heard about the newly titled _Queenslayer_ who took out Cersei Lannister. Heard about the Stark girl that ended a mad queen’s reign and restored peace to the seven kingdoms... but she never stuck around long enough to claim the glory. She’d become what she’d always said she wanted: a faceless, nameless no one. A legend. A myth.

But she _wasn’t_ a myth. Arya Stark was _real_ \- he’d held her warmly against his chest, felt her with his own rough hands - hands he’d long deemed unsuitable to be bestowed such an honor.

He’d tasted her.

 _Loved_ her.

He hadn’t imagined it - she was real.

What they _had_ was real.

 

...So then why was it so hard to convince himself of this fact as she stood here before him _now_ and he could see her with his own two eyes?

 

“My Lord,” she utters before him in the grand hall of his new home in Storm’s End, but she offers no bow and certainly no curtsey - _could_ one curtsey in leather riding pants?

Although one of his aids announced her arrival, it still takes him a few moments of stunned silence for him to reply, “Lady Stark.”

He knows what she’s thinking just by the stoney look on her face: she’s _no lady_.

But it rolls off his tongue anyways - partially by accident, and he’ll admit, partially to annoy her. Her stare burns through him and follows as he rises from where he sits to find the wine. He hadn’t drunk much wine in recent years - not since Melisandre had used it to lull him into a false sense of security before assaulting him with leeches. But Arya’s mere presence here is unnerving, and he wants desperately to take the immediate edge off.

This moment calls for wine.

“What brings you here?” Gendry asks as diplomatically as he can muster. He tries to steady his shaking hands as he pours some of the red liquid into a silver chalice. He watches it swirl in the bottom of the cup before he holds up the bottle, silently offering some to his guest. She shakes her head slightly and takes a step towards him - but then, she halts, almost as though she’s afraid to get too close.

“Do I need a reason to visit an old friend?” Her eyes are wide with familiar innocence he remembers from when they first met - an innocence that is unbefitting of a skilled assassin. He shakes his head and scoffs into his cup, despite himself.

“ _Friends?”_ he mutters almost bitterly before taking a sip. He hisses, biting back the tart, dry taste, “Is that what we are?”

“I would _hope_ so,” she replies, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. “What, after all we’ve been through...”

Gendry finds the courage to turn towards her to finally get a good look at her - she seems to size him up just the same. Her hair is longer now and she doesn’t pull it back. She looks worn and tired from being on the road, but she’s still as beautiful as he remembers. And while it could only have been a few months since he’s seen her, it feels as though it’s been years.

Years and miles upon aching miles between them.

“Lordship suits you,” she offers in what can only be a compliment, and it bends his lips. He is suddenly - _almost painfully_ \- aware of the weight of the Baratheon crown resting upon his head.

“I can’t ever tell if you’re being serious.”

“I _am_ serious.” Arya insists. Her blank face gives way to a slow smile. She gives a slight shrug, “well… maybe not _serious_ . But I _am_ sincere.” Gendry feels a laugh huff through his nose, despite himself.

“Well… _thank_ you. It’s quite a change from a bastard’s son in Flea Bottom. To be perfectly honest, I haven’t a clue what I’m doing. Davos helps but…” His words trail off when not even he knows exactly what his point is anymore.

“Fancy fork goes on the left,” she informs him, teasingly. He feels real laughter bubbling up inside of him and it almost makes him forget the way it felt when she rejected him the night he took on his new last name.

_Almost._

He feels his smile fall as he slowly walks to the roaring fireplace near his chair. He watches the flames and feels the heat against his skin - it reminds him that he is alive. That _she_ is here. That this is not a dream.

“Really. Why are you here, Arya?” he asks her, getting back to the point. “I figured with the way you ran off without a goodbye that I’d seen the last of you.”

“You’re mad at me.” She smirks up at him, a hint of amusement in her tone that is only exaggerated by the quirk of her eyebrow.

“Yes, well… you _used_ me,” he curtly replies, and it’s sharper than he intended. But the harsh lines on his face soften when he sees the turmoil brewing in her stormy eyes. He can’t look at them for long without feeling pulled in by them, so his gaze falls back to his goblet of wine. “You said you could be my family, once. And then when the time came to pay up, you fled.”

Arya can’t stand the way he won’t look at her now, so she nears him, instead.

“Are you mad that I rejected your proposal? Or that I don’t want to be a lady-?”

“I’m mad about the way you _left,_ ” he blurts out quickly, as though he might lose his nerve if he doesn’t. He tries in vain to seem unmoved, unbothered by her presence here, but his voice betrays him as he says, “You didn’t even say goodbye. You may not have wanted me as a husband, and that’s fine. I can live with that. But I at least thought you were still a decent _friend.”_

He can hear her sigh and realizes she’s moved even closer to him. And although he is resistant, she lightly forces his gaze to hers as she softly wonders, “Say that I said yes.”

Gendry’s eyes search hers for some kind of meaning, some kind of reassurance behind such a cryptic notion, but he finds none.

“Say I became your lady and wore silk dresses and stood by your side here in Storm’s End…” She nearly smiles as she muses these thoughts aloud and it’s infectious; Gendry can’t help but feel the corners of his mouth lift in reciprocation. But the moment passes as she finally asks him, “Would you really be able to live with the fact that being here with you that way would be killing the biggest part of me?”

A wide range of emotions flash across Gendry’s features, seemingly all at once; confusion, acceptance, and deep down there still may be love there, but his face hardens once more.

“You think _I_ wanted all this?” he laughs without humor, extending his hands out toward his more lavish surroundings. His voice seems to echo in the empty hall, only exemplifying how barren and lonely his life here feels. “I would have given it all up, name and all, to be with you. I never wanted you to be something you weren’t. But you didn’t care to stay around long enough to find out.”

“I had something I needed to finish.”

“You still could have said something - _anything_ \- to me. I could have died in that battle. _You_ could have died.”

“I thought you knew me better than that.”

“Yes, well... I thought I did too. And I thought you weren’t a _coward_ .” The words sting, and she winces. While he doesn't want to hurt her, he certainly has a lot to say. “You slayed the Night King and yet it is _me_ you’re afraid of?” The indignance in his tone is not lost upon her, he can tell by the way her resolve seems to waver before him. At times, she still reminds him of the young girl he met all those years ago.

“I was afraid you wanted something I could not give you. Something that I _still_ cannot give you-” Gendry leaves her side, heading back over to his chair - he needs to gain a little distance from her to think straight. He sits, half wanting to throw his crown across the room, and half wanting to secure it even more to his head.

His voice is devoid of all emotion as he says, “You still haven’t told me why you’re here, and I’m not sure it even matters anymore. The past is the past - you’re a guest and an ally, so you’re welcome to stay as long as you need.”

“I just need a place to rest for the night. I’ll be gone by the morning,” she assures him, although that does not seem like a victory for either of them.

Gendry nods, “I’ll have a handmaiden show you to a room and to the baths. We can have your garments laundered.”

“Thank you,” she replies meekly - it’s clear to each that they need a little more time to gain their composure before they can continue their conversation.

“Of course. _M’Lady_.”

Her eyes narrow at his words, but he can still make out the ire in her gaze.

“My _lord_.”

* * *

 

A couple of hours later, Gendry feels more composed than before.

She’d merely caught him off guard, that was all. He regrets how carried away he’d become with his emotions before, but vows to rectify the situation over dinner. He paces along the dining room as his mind goes over everything they’d just said and everything he _should_ have said.

And… perhaps a few things he shouldn’t have said.

He’d spent so long coming to terms with the fact that she didn’t want him in her life that now that she was here, he was at an utter loss.

Over the last few months, he’d been distracted. He was busy learning what it even meant to _be_ a lord. And aside from the guidance of Davos, he’d done it alone. Davos, of course, had told him the importance of finding a wife, but he’d done everything he could to prolong it. There would be time - he knew he would eventually find the right woman to lead beside him and bear his heirs…

He certainly hadn’t let himself be hung up on Arya - she had made it clear she wasn’t coming back when she left Winterfell. He’d been brash and foolish to throw a proposal like that at her. After all, it was her wildness and her desire for independence that made him love her in the first place.

Who was _he_ to douse such a vibrant flame?

“Are you still sore at me?”

Gendry turns when he hears Arya address him from the doorway of the dining hall and it makes all the _logical_ thoughts float away. He supposes he will forever be in awe of her, the woman he cannot have and wants the most.

He can feel his eyes widen in surprise when he sees her now - she looks unlike he’s ever seen her before. She is in a dress for one; an emerald green, intricately woven highborn gown with gold trimmings. There is a golden Stag emblem across the front bodice, fastening a cloak in place. To see his namesake adorning her chest fills him with a longing he can’t quite describe.

“You _look...-”_ He’s too distracted by her fine garments to find the right words. _Not like herself?_ It’s no matter; she brushes past him in a bit of a huff.

“If you say _a lady_ I will cut your face off and wear it,” she threatens him.

_Ah, there she is._

Gendry nods, swallowing down the laughter that wants to erupt from him when he notices the embarrassed rouge painting her cheeks. She smoothes down the bodice of her gown, bitterly adding, “it was the only thing they could find me in my size. And don’t you dare tell me I look _pretty_ . I never cared for that word and I never cared to _be_ it.”

Gendry can’t help but remember telling her she was beautiful the night he asked for her hand. He told her she was beautiful _and_ he called her a lady - it was no wonder she told him no. He had been so swept up in the moment that he hadn’t even considered that what he was offering her was the last thing she would want.

He shakes the memory of that night away.

“I would never dream of it,” he replies, his voice low. He gestures toward the table, “shall we start over?”

Arya eyes him up and down as though she doesn’t quite trust him before taking a seat at the long, oak table. She instantly reaches for a piece of bread, biting into it.

“Since when did you become so proper?” she asks him, her mouth full.

He wants to laugh again - it had been a long time since he was around someone who knew him well enough to call him out so transparently. He drops his still-extended hand and feels his shoulders slump in resignation. He sighs as he drags out a heavy chair, sitting across from her. Gendry takes a piece of bread and breaks it in half, shaking his head, “just trying to fit the part, I suppose.”

“Well _don’t,_ ” she nearly snaps. She leans back in her seat, and while she is dressed as a lady, she is undoubtedly still the Arya Stark he’d known all those years ago. “So, what’s a Lord do all day, anyway?” Arya asks him, raising one eyebrow as she picks her bread apart.

“You tell _me_. You were raised by one.”

Arya’s chewing slows, and she softly shakes her head, “no. I wasn’t.”

It takes a moment for Gendry to realize that she did most of her growing up on the road, traveling with thieves and killers. She may have been born of the House Stark in Winterfell, but she hardly knew anything of the noble life. He’d always just thought of her as a highborn girl, it was almost as though he forgot who she really was.

“Well, I don’t do anything as exciting as _you_ do, I’m sure,” he finally decides upon, taking a bite and washing it down with more wine.

“Don’t you miss it?”

“Which part, exactly?” Gendry muses. “Being out on the road? Or having no home?”

Arya falls forward on her elbows. There is a slight glisten in her eyes as she clarifies, “Don’t you miss the _excitement?”_

Gendry mulls on that for just a moment before he shakes his head again, “I was never a fighter.”

“No… I don’t suppose you were. ” she hums, tapping the rim of her chalice with her fingertip. “You sure could swing a hammer, though. Do you miss _that?_ ”

Gendry’s eyes fall back down to the meal in front of him as he moves the food around on his plate. “I don’t miss the death or the carnage, no.”

“Do you miss _crafting_ , I mean. It’s a shame you can’t work your iron here, like this. You were very talented.”

Now it is Gendry who leans back in his chair. He cocks an eyebrow, “And who says I _don’t?_ ”

* * *

Gendry leads Arya down the long, narrow corridor on the east side of the castle. She doesn’t ask where they are going, even as they step outside into the courtyard and continue out to the adjacent building. But even if she did ask him, Gendry wouldn’t tell her. He hears her stepping nimbly beside him and he can feel the excitement pulsing in his chest. Ever since he’d moved to Storm’s End, he’d imagined showing her the castle forge, which is where he spent most of his time since he’d arrived.

He pushes the heavy door open and waits, letting her wander through the doorway first. He regrets that he doesn’t even get to see her face when she sees the large room - much larger and grander than any village smith he’d ever worked at. She whips around on her heel, smirking at him slyly.

“So, this is _really_ what you do all day,” Arya says, nodding in approval as she takes in the sight of the forge. Gendry crosses his arms over his chest, leaning against the doorway.

“Aside from the boring bureaucracy of being a lord? Yes.”

“This is more like it,” Arya nearly purrs, pulling a finished sword from its casing and holding it in her hands. He can see her pupils blown wide as she marvels at the expert craftsmanship of the blade.  She looks up at him and smiles a more sincere smile than he’s seen since she’s arrived, “it’s exquisite.”

Gendry chuckles to himself as he steps to her, taking the sword from her hands. He admires his own work for only a moment, and then slips it back into its sheath. He towers a whole head over her as he quietly tells her, “No one _said_ I have to give up what I love just to belong somewhere.”

He sets the sword gently back down on the table, leaving her among the finished weapons to tidy up one of his workbenches. She continues to peruse, her fingertips delicately resting on individual pieces as though she is admiring priceless art. Her hand rests upon an incredibly thin blade, not unlike her cherished Needle.

Arya carefully picks it up, standing sideways and giving the air a couple of quick dashes. Gendry just watches her, embarrassment creeping up on him just as she notices the wolf emblem on the hilt. When she looks up at him questioningly, he can only shrug and mumble, “I wasn’t sure if I’d see you again.”

“But you made it anyway?”

“Just in case.”

She seems moved, even if only for a moment.

“It’s lovely, thank you...” If there is emotion welling up in her he watches her physically swallow it back down, “but I already have a sword.”

He’s not surprised by her cold reaction - it is trademark Arya. He _is_ happy, however, to see her more in her element since she’d arrived - even if she is dressed as a lady while doing it. She seems to forget this fact as she continues to explore the forge, more and more impressed by the moment.

Seeing her here, seeing her happy, makes Gendry long to have her here with him all the time. How was he supposed to say goodbye to her all over again tomorrow when he just got her back? Although he knows it’s foolish and he will live to regret his words, he can’t help himself.

“You don’t have to leave tomorrow, you know,” he says before he can find the willpower to stop himself. Arya turns around to look at him, her eyebrows slanting sadly and he already regrets opening his mouth. And yet, he continues, “you’re welcome to stay here as long as you need.”

“I’ll make it on my own just fine. I always have,” she reassures him, but that wasn’t why he offered. He knows very well she can handle herself - he _wants_ her here. He thinks he always will.

“I don’t doubt that,” he laughs. He rounds the table that is separating them. His hands come up to rest on her shoulders, “but you don’t have to go it alone. _Neither_ of us have to be alone.”

“ _Gendry…_ ” she sighs, but she looks up at him like she is considering it and it fills him with a strange sense of hope. Maybe now - _maybe this time_ \- she’ll stay. She seems to surprise even herself as she slinks her arms around his waist and hugs onto him. He barely reacts at first, too surprised by the sudden affection between them. Then his cheek rests upon her head and his arms enclose around her.

“I still have some unfinished business to attend to,” she says after a long moment, and Gendry is certain he feels his heart drop.

“More names to cross off of your _list?_ ” He isn’t angry, nor is he hurt. Just… not surprised. “At what point are you going to let yourself be happy?” he asks her.

She pulls herself from him, separating entirely.

“You mean happy like _you?”_ she says, and he can see he’s offended her. She crosses her arms over her chest and that quickly, she is closed off again. “Down here in your fancy castle, all alone?”

“You sound like him sometimes, you know,” Gendry says over his shoulder as he walks past her and back to the safe side of the table. He often forgets she could shred him to ribbons faster than he could ever anticipate. While he’d like to think she wouldn’t, he can’t be too sure.

“Who?”

“The Hound.”

She freezes at his words and her still silence makes him glance over at her once more. She pales for only a moment before going back to stare at the various weaponry around them.

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Gendry all but rolls his eyes - was she always this difficult? He can’t recall...

“Take it however you want. How is the old bastard, anyway?”

Arya grips onto small knife from the table, stabbing it deeply into the wood. "He’s dead," she utters, simply.

"What?” Gendry breathes, “ _When?"_

"Battle of King’s Landing" she informs him, matter-of-factly. “It was his brother. I tried to help but it was too late. And he got away before I could get to him. I have no idea where he is now… I tried to track him, for weeks but...”

"But?" he presses, his eyes wide with wonder.

" _I-I…_ " she stammers, and he’s almost certain he can see the beginnings of tears forming in her eyes. He’s close to getting through to her, he can _feel_ it this time. He softly rests his hand upon hers on the weapons table. She glances down at his hand on hers, swallowing hard.

“I never should have come here.”

And that swiftly she has moved from him, leaving the forge and hurrying back out to the courtyard. Gendry follows right after, knowing she can’t get too far ahead of him. She barely makes it out the door before he’s right behind her.

“Why do I feel as though I’m always irritating you?” Gendry asks at her back, and he’s caught off guard when Arya whips around, giving him a slight push.

“No, Gendry! You’re _distracting_ me!” she finally yells. “Don’t you get it?” At first, he’s stunned to see the first real, human emotion in her since she’s arrived, but at the same time, he’s relieved. She’d been so closed off, so cool and collected and… _distant_ . He doesn’t even mind that the emotion she seems to be seething with is anger - at least it’s passion. At least it’s _something_.

“No,” he bites back. “I _don’t_ understand.”

Arya runs her frustrated fingers through her dark hair and clenches, “I have _tried_ . I have _tried_ to forget you - not just now, but my whole life. When I saw you again in Winterfell, I tried to get you out of my system but it just doesn’t _work_ . It only seems to make it worse. And still, when I am out there, you’re always on my mind. It’s like you’re _haunting_ me-”

“I don’t understand why that’s a _bad_ thing,” he chortles, both exasperated and confused all at once. He wants to tell her he feels the same, that he knows everything that has happened in his life keeps pointing him back to her, keeps pointing them towards each other.

“Because I need to avenge him. His brother needs to pay. How am I supposed to finish this when all I can think about while I’m out there is finding my way back to you?” He can see the panic in her eyes as she tries to explain. Her chest heaves, and he lets his hands reach out to rest on her arms to soothe her. He is relieved when she doesn’t pull from him but grips onto the lapels of his jacket instead.

“I should be out there. I should have found him,” she chokes back her sob. “but I’m _here_. I came here to you.”

He wants to ask her why, but he’s already asked twice why she came here and received no response. Her hands reach up to cup his face, and as he stares down at her he realizes just how broken she really is. “Before you, I didn’t have anything to lose. And now I think you are the closest thing to a home I have left," she whispers. Gendry is fairly certain that is the closest thing to a declaration of love he’ll ever receive from her.

He swallows down the knot that’s forming in his own throat and instead of saying anything more, he brings her to his chest. She hugs onto him once more and his hand comes up to rest on the back of her head.

“When you ask me to stay and I have to tell you no... it _kills_ me,” she confesses.

“I don’t need anything from you,” he promises softly, speaking mostly into her hair. “Having you here now, even just for the night, is enough for me.”

He knows this isn’t the truth - and it pains him to say it aloud. But it’s what she needs, and that’s more important than his own feelings.

He pulls from her, looking down at the turmoil still brewing in her eyes. She doesn’t need more than she’s already carrying. Before they were lovers, they were friends. And she needs her friend right now.

And to be perfectly honest… he could use a friend, too.

“I have an idea,” he begins. Her small grin seems to match his own, so he smiles even more broadly in hopes she does, too. “Since we only have tonight, let’s say we get drunk and just… enjoy each other’s company. Who knows when or _if_ we’ll see each other again. Let’s not waste anymore of our time together fussing over the details.”

Gendry can almost see the weight lifted off her shoulders as she nods, “That sounds like a _brilliant_ idea.”

* * *

Gendry and Arya sit on the floor in his bedchamber.

They rest in front of a plush ottoman in the crackling, flickering glow of the fireplace. They talk, they reminisce… and it’s easy between them again. While a lot of what has remained unsaid between them weighs heavily on his heart, most of the tension from before has subsided the more the wine bottle empties between them.  He’s never been more grateful for her presence than this moment.

Gendry laughs about something Arya says and he is feeling slightly giddy from the wine... but also from the company he’s keeping. He tips the bottle of wine back, although he’s not sure if he’s still waging war on his nerves or celebrating Arya’s return.

Arya chuckles softly as well, her hand reaching for the bottle and taking a swig, herself. She immediately winces, almost gagging. " _Ugh,_ ” she retches in disgust. “I never did get acquired to the taste of red wine," she notes, coughing delicately. Gendry shrugs, uncaringly.

“You just don’t know good wine,” he insults her, but she just smacks him gently on the arm.

“Oh, and because you’re a Lord now, _you_ do?” she sneers back at him.

"It’s much better than the piss-water we used to call wine back in Flea Bottom, that’s for sure."

She’ll have to take his word for it.

He snags the bottle back, taking another drink as Arya laughs quietly to herself. He watches her, the way her features are soft and glowing in the fire’s light. He also can’t help but notice how close they are sitting next to each other; and yet, he scoots even closer, suddenly feeling flush.

“It feels nice to be here," she sighs wistfully, shaking her head as though she’s still in disbelief. “I don’t think I’ve had a proper laugh in… Well, I don’t really know how long.”

“You really are unlike any girl I’ve met," he says, his voice low and rough. She shrugs.

“Well. You don’t know that many girls."

"I know enough,” Gendry tells her, somewhat defensively. He waits for her to send another barb his way, but instead, she just seems lost in the flames. “Do you want me to take you back to your room, now?" he offers. "You look tired."

"No, I'm not ready to go to bed yet," she replies, although her yawn gives her away. In any matter, he’s happy she’s not ready to retire just yet. He doesn’t have long with her, after all.

She leans her head down on his shoulder, which surprises him. He lets it rest there, takes another drink off their shared bottle of wine. They sit in the heavy silence for a few moments, the raging flames popping and cracking in the fireplace as they watch the fire dance. Maybe it is the wine, maybe it is the warm fire, but Gendry is almost completely sure it is the weight of her head on her shoulder that makes this moment feel… _right_.

"Arya?"

" _Hmm?_ "

"Thank you."

Arya lifts her head just barely, eyeing him carefully.

 _"For?"_ she wonders, but she already knows what he was going to say.

"For coming back. I know what it meant for you to do so... But I'm grateful that you did," he says, somewhat sheepishly.

“ _Can_ you come back to a place you’ve never been?” she wonders, but her voice sounds far away. He wishes he could crawl inside her mind and root around, find out what she’s thinking. He doesn’t want to push, but he’s aching to know.

“I meant to _me_.”

“As long as I am alive, I will always try to come back,” she promises.

"Can I just… say something you might not care for?" Gendry asks, staring deeply into her eyes. Arya feels her lips curl into a small, weak smile.

"Hopefully not another proposal," she teases, but her voice is tired.

"I very much want to kiss you right now," Gendry dares, his face serious once more. He doesn't even entirely know where the bravery came from.

"You’re drunk. And a fool," she suggests lightly, brushing off his advances… but she does not move from him. He smiles at her anyway, leaning his head back upon the ottoman.

"No more than you are," he counters, turning towards her once more. "I've had more than my fair share of wine tonight. But…" He reaches up, taking Arya's face with his hand and gently turning it back towards him, "I’d rather be a drunken fool with you than anyone else," he guarantees her, his voice determined. He watches as Arya's breathing becomes shallow the closer his face moves to her. Her eyes flutter closed as he rests his forehead to her temple. He almost hears a slight purr of approval from her as she leans her head more toward him, inviting him in without words.

“I’m afraid I’m only going to hurt you,” she admits to him, her voice soft and nearly a whisper.  He pulls from her just enough to look into her eyes once more. There is a burning intensity between them that neither can hold off very much longer. This was where the night was heading from the very start.

And they both know it.

“It wouldn’t be the first time a Stark broke a Baratheon’s heart,” he drones, slyly tugging her closer to him. “It certainly won’t be the last.” Arya follows his lead, climbing up onto his lap with very little resistance now. He brushes loose, chestnut hair from her eyes.  Before Arya can object, before they can even think about what is happening, his lips are on the line of her jaw, his breath is on her neck. Once again he finds her looking down at him from above, only this time he knows she feels no control over what is happening.

Their lips pull together like magnets, their breaths mingling together like they are getting reacquainted. Gendry’s hands roam her back and pull her body even closer to his until there is no light between them. The bustle of her dress bunched between them only makes it glaringly aware how many layers of clothing rest between them.

His lips leave hers only so he can concentrate enough to help him focus on the tied up bodice of her dress that she’s already fussing with. When he realizes that he’s only complicating the process further, his hands instead round her backside and slip under her dress, trying to find any traces of soft, bare skin to smooth over.

Arya’s hips move against his and the friction between their two bodies causes him to involuntarily hiss between his teeth. He becomes impatient, bringing her mouth back to his greedily as his entire mind goes blank. He can’t seem to focus on one coherent thought or sensation, so he lets human nature take over.

“Why… do you have… so many layers?” she groans between kisses. Gendry laughs into her mouth as she continues to paw at his clothing. He leans them both forward to help her as they discard one garment at a time.

“You’re certainly eager,” he teases her, but she calls his bluff as her hand roams down between them and takes ahold of him.

“ _You’re_ one to talk,” she mumbles into his lips as he swallows down another groan climbing up his throat.

“The polite thing to do, _m’lady_ , is to offer to do something about it,” he snides, although he hasn’t an idea where he found the confidence to do so. Arya doesn’t dignify his teasing with a response, merely takes matters into her own hands. She stands from him and he feels empty everywhere she is no longer touching. Since neither seems to be familiar enough with her fancy gown to get it off quickly enough, she finally opts to just remove her undergarments instead.  

She returns to his lap and he feels her skin on his now - it’s enough to drive him mad.

His mouth searches for hers once more, and Arya moans softly when they reconnect. He pauses for only a moment, a small smile forming on his lips; he is oddly proud of himself for eliciting this kind of reaction from her. He leans in again, unable to keep their bodies separated for any longer - hadn’t all these months been enough wasted time?

She rises to her knees, and when she brings her body back down this time she takes him with her. They sigh together, their foreheads touching, and the warmth around him is almost dizzying. His head falls forward and rests against her chest as he catches a curse in his throat.

The first time they’d made love, they’d been so careful. It was her first time, and living in a world where not many maidens got a choice in the matter was not lost upon Gendry. Arya got to choose - and she chose him. Why he was blessed enough to be bestowed such a gift, he’s certain he may never know. But he was chosen nonetheless. And while Gendry may have been the closest thing to a home Arya had ever known, she had been the closest thing to family he’d ever had. They were tethered, whether they wanted to be or not.

So the feeling now of being connected once more was not anything he would take for granted. She moves against him slowly but deliberately and he can’t find enough skin to trace his lips over. So much of her would go unexplored by him, and that is a damn tragedy.

Gendry presses his hips forward, cautiously at first, caringly. He doesn’t even have to ask if she is alright, he can tell by the look of trust in her eyes and her wistful sighs that she is fine. Then the small, but slightly prideful smile on her lips lets Gendry know that she was _better_ than fine. She squirms a bit above him, trying to get used to the sensation, the fullness. He feels searing hot inside of her, and he wishes that they could stay like this forever. She wraps her arms tightly around him, pulling his chest close to hers in an embrace. He can feel her staggered breathing against his neck, her dewy skin rubbing against his, while she places fleeting, sporadic kisses against his shoulder.

Gendry presses forward again and he is gone.

He begins to move against her with more stamina, and Arya begins to rock her body above him. He tries to be gentle, taking things slow and deliberate, every movement serving a well-defined and calculated purpose. Even still, the passion between them is undeniable. Limbs become intertwined to the point where he’s not even completely sure where she ended and he began.

" _I love you,_ " he thinks but does not say. He _wants_ to... but the words became lodged in his throat and can't come out.

As he can sense her movement becoming more direct and purposeful, She claws her nails into his back, biting down upon his shoulder to muffle herself as a wave of ecstasy washes over her.

With that, Gendry quickly reaches his end as well, as there was no point in prolonging the inevitable. He shudders beneath her, his heart racing and his mind drawing a blank.

Even after it’s over, they stay connected for a moment, as though neither is fully ready to let go of everything that just happened. It takes a few seconds before his breathing slows and he presses a kiss into her neck, her shoulder. The same part of him that loves her enough to let her go is the same part that wants to keep her here with him, like this, forever.

Gendry raised his head, a look of surprise on his face.

"Well. I did not expect that to happen," he admits, chuckling a bit. "I didn't just imagine that, right? That really happened?" Arya smirks, her face glowing and cheeks pink. Her dress is disheveled and unfasted in random places and she’s never looked lovelier.

"That just happened," she chuckles, low and hoarse. "And if you're lucky, it might happen again.”  

Gendry reaches up, his thumb tracing the grooves of her lips, drinking in her soft features. He leans in, giving her one last lingering kiss before pulling her in close, holding her tightly to his chest.

It doesn’t matter how far she goes from him… she’s his home, too.

 

The rest of the night is more wine, more making love, and trying their best to fight off the dawn that is slowly approaching just to part them once more. For a few sacred hours, they can pretend like the rest of the world doesn’t exist, but the soft breaking of daylight through his chamber window makes both of their hearts grow heavy with sorrow.

Even though they both try, neither can sleep.

So they just _be_.

Silent.

Still.

Together.

He wonders what she’s thinking, wondering if she’s changed her mind but no… he doesn’t suppose she has. She’s not that kind of girl. And he knows better than to try again.

He takes what he can get, as the hours dwindle down to minutes.

“How many has it been since me?” he finds himself asking into the soft skin of her shoulder. He lightly runs his lips along the smoothness of her bare skin without truly wanting the answer to that question. Somehow no answer is going to quell the aching in his chest, even as he holds her close to him.

She turns her body over to face him beneath his satin bedding and he can see the flickering fire reflecting in her eyes as her hand reaches up to rest upon his face.

“It’s only you. It’ll only ever be you.”

One might take such a comment and pass it off as a declaration of love, but Gendry knows Arya better than that. It means things like that never mattered to her, and while he feels privileged by this information, it also makes him feel emptier, somehow.

“Gendry,” she says, her voice as soft as a whisper. His eyes slowly open to find hers. There’s such an intensity in them that it almost scares him. He swears he can hear her voice shake as she says, “You know I can’t stay… _right?”_

“I know.”

 

She slips out of the bed just as he begins to drift off. When she returns to the room, she’s changed back into her riding clothes. She leans down, pressing a kiss against his forehead, but before she can leave him he pulls her back to gently place one against his lips. She crouches down, giving him a smile that will quell his longing for her at least until she comes back.

“Until next time,” she whispers, and it sounds like a promise. He can see she’s fetched the sword he’d forged for her and it makes his heart full - at least she will be carrying a piece of him with her. He prays it brings her luck and protection.

 

And just as she suddenly arrived, she leaves.

 

At least this time he got a goodbye.

 

* * *

  
_To be continued._

 


End file.
